by Lottie Lucas
I can’t decide if I’m more touched or appalled. Just the thought of them having that conversation makes me want to crawl into a hole and die.
“God, no,” I blurt out before hastily backtracking. “I mean, no, thank you. I’ll handle it.”
He has the grace not to look wholeheartedly relieved. “All right. But the offer stands. If things get difficult …”
If things get difficult, then he’s more likely to be greeted by a swift right hook than a chance to say his piece. He’s a smart man; surely he must know that.
I close my eyes against the swirling thoughts in my head. Why did he have to choose this moment to be so unbearably sweet? It just makes it so much harder to walk away.
I slide his jacket off my shoulders and hand it back to him. “I’d better go.”
He steps forward. “I’ll walk you home.”
“No.” The word comes out more forcefully than I’d intended. “I’ll make my own way. Thanks.”
He doesn’t look pleased, but then he doesn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
His voice is distant, coldly formal. I wrap my arms around myself. It’s almost like we’re going backwards, reverting to our initial awkward exchanges. I hover, not knowing what else to say. That just makes the aching even worse; before, I would always have known what to say to him.
“I’ll see you …” When? At the unveiling? Who knows now? At the museum? Maybe. But will we even speak? Oh, God, this is awful. “I’ll just … see you.”
And, with that obscure parting shot, I turn and walk away into the dark.
Chapter 20
“So … you kissed him. Again,” Heather adds, somewhat unnecessarily. And somewhat pointedly too, in my opinion. I frown at her, a feat not easily achieved when I’m bending over with my head between my knees and my hands flat on the floor.
“I did not kiss him the first time. We’ve been over this.” I straighten up too fast and stars dance in front of my eyes.
“But you definitely did this time.” She follows my lead, stretching her arms up above her head. “What’s this one called again?”
“Mountain pose. And if we’re being technical about it, he kissed me.”
“It doesn’t matter who started it.” She reaches up higher, wincing. “Did you kiss him back? That’s the important question here.”
I release my arms, gradually dropping them down to my sides with a deep exhale. Obviously, Heather hasn’t grasped the concept that yoga is supposed to be meditative and relaxing. It’s anything other than relaxing right now, with her firing questions at me. Especially questions I don’t particularly want to answer.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I’ve replayed it all so many times, I don’t even know if I trust my own recollection of events any more. “It all happened so fast.”
“Oh. So not a full-on kiss, then?” Is it just me, or does she look faintly disappointed?
“No,” I say sharply. “Of course not. We both realised straight away that it was a mistake, and we pulled away. It was a few seconds of madness, that’s all.”
That’s the line I’ve been repeating in my head, over and over since it happened. And if it’s beginning to hint faintly of desperation … Well, look, it’s the truth. Or at least it’s the only truth I can handle at the moment.
It has to be the truth. There’s simply no other option.
“If you say so.”
I catch my foot in my hand, placing it against my thigh in preparation for tree pose. I’m trying hard not to feel annoyed with her. Annoyance is not yogic. I’m supposed to be suffused with benevolent thoughts, love to the world and all of that.
“None of this matters anyway, not now,” I say crisply, hoping to put an end to this line of discussion. “I’ve told Josh, and we’ve sorted it out.”
“Wait … You told him?” She wobbles precariously on one leg. “God, this is hard.”
“Just concentrate. It’ll get easier.”
“Easy for you to say.” She eyes me malevolently as I gently unfurl from the pose. “You have better balance than I do. Probably because you’re not permanently exhausted from running around after a three-year-old all day. Sometimes, I find it hard to stay upright on two legs, let alone one. Most days, I could gladly fall asleep in the supermarket aisle.”
I huff disbelievingly.
“Like you ever go to the supermarket any more.” Heather’s Waitrose delivery slot is sacrosanct; nothing messes with it. Even poor Oscar’s needs are secondary.
She ignores my jibe.
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He was fine about it.” I hesitate, wondering whether to tell her more. “As a matter of fact, he kind of … laughed it off.”
“He laughed?” She loses her balance, stumbling back into the sofa. Her handbag flops onto its side, spilling its contents across the seat. Casper looks up in indignation at the disturbance and she pats him apologetically on the head before turning back to me, aghast. “You told him that you kissed another man and he laughed?”
“Not literally.” Actually, he kind of did, but now I’m on the defensive. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t said anything. Heather has a way of latching onto things. “What I mean is that he thinks it’s no big deal. And why shouldn’t he? He could see that it was nothing to worry about. He said that these things happen.”
“Clara—” Heather sits down on the sofa, her face creased with concern “—don’t you think that’s a little … odd?”
Whatever she’s getting at, I don’t want to go there. To be honest, I’m just so grateful that he took it as well as he did; I half expected him to end it there and then or, failing that, for things to be decidedly strained between us for a while. But they haven’t been; in fact, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that nothing had happened at all.
He’s been utterly wonderful about everything, far more so than I think I could have been if it had been the other way around. So, yes, perhaps his reaction was a little … surprising. But after the understanding he’s shown me, how can I possibly start questioning his motives? It would be horribly unfair. Trust has to work both ways.
I don’t want to turn into someone like Heather. That’s the difference between us; she’s always worrying, always looking for problems. Sometimes where there isn’t even one to find in the first place.
“He’s just not the jealous type, that’s all,” I explain. “He doesn’t overreact to things. He listens instead.” How many men can you say that of? “It’s one of the things I like best about him. It’s why we fit. I thought you knew that.”
I’m beginning to feel exasperated. I mean, it was her idea to put myself out there in the first place. She wanted me to meet someone who makes me happy.
And Josh does. He really does, I remind myself staunchly. Things are so great between us, I almost have to keep pinching myself to check that it’s real. We’ve almost fallen into the pattern of a relationship without even having to try; he stays over at mine every night now. I’ve even caught myself referring to him as my boyfriend a few times. Just in my head so far; I haven’t actually said it in front of him as yet, but I’m thinking that I will soon. I mean, one of us has to go first, don’t they? And the last time we tried to have a conversation about our relationship status … well, it was about the most awkward it’s ever been between us. I don’t want to attempt that again.
The truth is, I’m starting to realise that talking about it just isn’t our style. It’s too formal; it makes it weird, when it doesn’t have to be. How much more natural would it be to just drop it into the conversation—at the right moment, of course—and he’ll look at me with those glorious green eyes, and something unspoken will pass between us and …
“Yes, but don’t you think there’s such a thing as too easygoing?” Heather’s voice jostles me back into the present. She’s playing with a tassel on one of my cushions, looking apprehensive. “Do you really think he’s as serious ab
out your relationship as you are?”
I stare at her. I can’t believe she’s actually asking me this.
“Heather,” I say slowly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything!” She holds up her hands. “I’m just asking the question, that’s all. I want you to be honest with yourself. Why are you being so defensive?”
“I don’t need to be honest with myself!” I say hotly. I’ve given up all pretence of doing yoga by now. Instead I fold my arms across my body, glaring down at her. “And if I’m being defensive, it’s because you’re trying to make me doubt him. I thought you were happy for me.”
“I am!” Heather bites her lip, looking anguished. “But I’m worried, Clara. He’s not acting like a man who wants commitment. I’m just not sure that you two are on the same page, and I worried you’re going to get hurt. You know that you have a tendency to …”
“To what?” I demand. “Go on, say it.”
“You tend to only look for what you want to see,” she says quietly. “You get carried away on some romantic daydream and you miss all the warning signs.”
“What warning signs?” I all but cry. “There are no warning signs. He’s bloody perfect. Even Casper adores him. Wasn’t that the ultimate test? Well, he’s passed! What more proof do you need?”
“Casper …” For a moment, she looks confused, then her face clears. “Wait, you don’t mean that conversation we had over lunch? Where I told you …”
I just look back defiantly. Her blue eyes widen in horror.
“Clara, that was just a joke! I didn’t mean for you to take it literally.” She gives a forced-sounding laugh. “Cats don’t matchmake. Surely even you must know that’s crazy.”
“No, I don’t,” I say furiously. “And I’m not a joke, whatever you might think.”
Her face falls. “I’ve never thought—”
“Yes, you have! You all have! You think I’m some zany airhead who floats around in floral dresses and fills her house with meaningless coloured rocks. You humour me.” Suddenly, tears are pricking at the back of my eyes, and I blink them away. Years upon years of being sidelined, patronised and underestimated are all coming to the surface. But then, maybe they’ve never really been that far beneath it. “At least Josh takes me seriously.”
“That is not true.” Heather shakes her head. “No one thinks that. I don’t think that.”
But there’s a faint hesitation before she says it which I don’t miss.
How could I not have noticed? Or perhaps I did, and I just didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. Heather, my colleagues … even Adam, I realise with a heavy sensation. All that talk about discussing his thesis; maybe he just suggested that out of kindness, to make me think that he actually respected my opinion. When I’m with him it’s easy to forget but, let’s be honest; what am I in his eyes? Just a ditzy, frivolous girl. I don’t belong in his world. I’m fine for a laugh, a cocktail or two, perhaps even a stolen kiss.
That kiss. My stomach drops to the floor just at the memory. Would he have acted so rashly with someone more illustrious, I wonder? Another academic, someone who was more on his level?
Someone important?
No, I don’t think he would. The thought alone is enough to make my throat tighten all over again.
And now I’m with Josh, and for once I actually feel like we’re on a level. For once, I feel like I’m enough, just as I am. And my best friend is trying to ruin it for me. I don’t understand why. Unless …
“Are you jealous?” I ask Heather abruptly. I’m lashing out, speaking before I think, but even as the words are leaving my mouth I know that it’s the only explanation. Why else would she be saying all of this?
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“You are; you’re jealous.” I jab my finger at her. Which just goes to show how much she’s got to me; normally I’d die before doing anything so vulgar. “Because you settled with Dominic, and you know it.”
Her fingers grip into the cushion, causing deep dents in the velvety fabric. Other than that, she’s completely still. Even her lips hardly move when she next speaks.
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true!” I throw my hands up in the air. “You tell me to be honest with myself; why don’t you take some of your own advice? You knew the truth all those years ago, when we sat up all night talking about whether you should break it off with him. Do you remember what you said?”
She’s gone white. “No, I …”
“Well, I do. You said you didn’t think that you could ever love him. To which I replied that, if that was the case, it was better to end it sooner rather than later. And you agreed! But you were afraid to do it, and then you found out you were pregnant, and suddenly it was too late.” I break off, breathing heavily. We’ve never spoken about this before; there’s always been a tacit agreement between us to pretend like it never happened. After all, what was the point? What was done was done. But now all of those old feelings, that lingering sense of unfairness which I’ve always been too ashamed to confront … it’s all there, fuelling my words. “You made your mistake, Heather, and you’ve had to live with it. But now you just can’t bear to see me get it right, can you?”
There’s a tense, awful silence. Immediately, my hand flies to my mouth; I’ve said too much, and I know it. But I can’t unsay it; it’s there, out in the open, and there’s no taking it back.
“Well,” Heather says at last, and her voice is so low that I can barely make out the words. “If that’s really what you think …” she begins to gather items back into her handbag with shaking hands “… then I suppose there isn’t much more I can say.”
“Heather, look …”
I feel like the worst person in the world. She looks utterly crushed, and all I want to do is fling my arms around her and beg for forgiveness. But something stops me— perhaps a sense that if I don’t hold my ground now, I won’t be doing myself any favours. How can I expect her to take me seriously if I don’t take myself seriously? So I stop before I can say any more.
She looks at me for a long moment, then hoists the bag onto her shoulder.
“You’re better than this, Clara. You might have convinced yourself on the surface that he’s everything you’ve been looking for, but underneath you know that something’s not right. But if you won’t even be honest with yourself, then I can’t protect you. You’re on your own this time.” She stands. “Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”
After she’s gone, the atmosphere in the room is unbearable. Even Casper seems to be looking at me accusingly, which in itself is unsettling. Because, God knows, his moral compass is decidedly skewed.
“I don’t know what you’re looking at me like that for,” I snap. Then suddenly all of my anger leaves me and I sink down onto the sofa, dropping my head into my hands. Casper clambers into my lap, wedging himself into the tight space between my arms. I pull him close, burying my face in his fur, and for once he doesn’t protest at being squeezed.
At least, if nothing else, I’ll always have my cat.
Chapter 21
“You okay?” Ruby smoothes lip gloss over her lips, pouting at her reflection in the mirror. “You look kind of jumpy.”
Ever tactful, Ruby.
“I’m nervous, that’s all.” I brace my hands on either side of the sink. “It’s a big thing for me.”
“Well, you look great, so you’re halfway there.”
Even I have to admit that she’s right. For once, my nerves aren’t showing on my face. In fact, I look pretty glowing, although that might have more to do with liberal application of highlighter than anything. I’ve left my hair down, with just the front sections pulled back from my face, revealing my high cheekbones, which are further accentuated by said highlighter. Ruby’s always telling me to show off my cheekbones more.
I went through my wardrobe this afternoon, trying to find the most sombre garment I owned. Something appropriate for an as
sistant curator to stand up in front of a room full of academics, museum-goers and art journalists. But instead, almost of its own accord, my hand reached in and pulled out this dress. It’s the very opposite of sombre, a halterneck fifties-style frock with a swirly skirt and an all-over lemon print. Usually I keep it for summer weddings and suchlike; I don’t know why I chose it for tonight. But somehow it felt right. Perhaps a part of me felt what I always have, that I shouldn’t need to change my appearance to be treated with respect. What’s the point of standing there and pretending to be someone I’m not?
In any event, I needn’t have worried about being the most outlandishly dressed person here. Ruby’s wearing an emerald green catsuit. I thought Jeremy might have an apoplexy when he saw, but luckily he didn’t. In fact, he seemed to almost take it in his stride. Perhaps he’s mellowing.
Ha. That will be the day.
“Just stand there, say your stuff, we’ll all applaud, then we can have champagne.” Ruby waves her lip gloss as though this were the simplest thing in the world. “Easy.”
Easy indeed. Easy, perhaps, when nothing fazes you and the whole world’s your stage. But I hate public speaking; I always have, even in school when all we had to do was stand up in front of the class and recite a poem.
I unfold my notes now and stare at them for what has to be the thousandth time. I’m pretty pleased with how my speech has shaped up, if I do say so myself. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but then how could it be, with Jeremy as chief editor and censor? The page is covered with his crabbed handwriting: crossings out here, additions there, the odd cryptic comment. My favourite is the one next to a sentence about the accessibility of great art, which says ‘too inspiring’. How can something be too inspiring? Then again, I think now, peering at it closely—his handwriting is appalling—maybe it actually says ‘too insipid’. Or even ‘too insufferable’. Either’s perfectly likely.
But, even with Jeremy’s dampening influence, I still think it’s a good speech. And somehow it’s still my speech. It doesn’t just sound like something Jeremy would write, which is what I was afraid of. Hopefully, it will also manage to keep more people awake than one of Jeremy’s speeches.